The Execution
by CyanideDreams610
Summary: Sequel to "The Interview." Drew starts working for Julian Priest and through their interactions, wonders if he's completely insane. Their first project, restoring a corpse. Warning: Smut. David Bowie's character Julian Priest in 90s TV series "The Hunger"
1. Chapter 1

This is a sequel to my other Julian Priest story called "The Interview." You can find that one on my profile! Thanks to raredeadly for the beta!

**Warning:** Smut

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Drew is bent over the toilet bowl, throwing up the entire contents of her stomach. Priest stands by the bathroom door, highly amused at her predicament and a little impatient to return to work on his newest piece of art.

"Are you quite finished?" Priest asks while Drew is moaning into the toilet.

She lifts her head and turns to scowl at him. Sweat sheens her forehead, and her skin is a green color. Priest ignores her look of indignation and continues, "I still need you to assist me…that _is_ what I have hired you for."

"How can you _breathe_ in there, let alone work on that damn thing?" she grimaces. "It smells like–"

"Death," he interrupts. "Yes, of course it does, considering it's a dead body." He hands her a glass of water. She takes it and rinses her mouth, spitting into the toilet. "It might help if you breathe through your mouth," Priest suggests, "then you won't smell it."

"Yea, and then I can taste it instead."

"Don't be ridiculous; you can't _taste_ death unless you lick the fucking corpse." He walks over to her. "That's just psychosomatic."

"What?"

"It's all in your head." He softly pokes her temple.

She shrinks away, and he pulls his hand back. It's been a little over two weeks since she started the job, but she's still jumpy around him. He continues as if nothing happened, "Now get on your feet; there is much to be done and you are wasting time." He turns and walks out of the bathroom, expecting her to follow.

She flips him the finger as he disappears through the door and then she flushes the toilet. _Fucker._

"Why isn't he embalmed?" she asks as she trails after him, "He won't last very long as an exhibit; he's already decomposing."

"Because we are doing the embalming," he answers with a smile as he continues walking to the penitentiary morgue located in the basement. "And, we will try to restore him as well. Those idiots didn't properly account for how much dry ice they would need."

"Where did you get the body anyway?"

"China!" He seems awfully enthusiastic. "You'd be surprised how easily it is to get these sorts of things with the right price and the right connections."

He pushes through the double doors and steps inside. The smell of decay hits Drew. She gags, covering her mouth and nose with a hand. She follows him into the morgue, pinching her nose shut. She freezes. Now that she is taking a good look at the corpse instead of running away with vomit in her mouth, she realizes that something is very off about the dead man on the mortuary table.

"Mr. Priest…" Her voice is nasally since she is still squeezing her nostrils.

"Yes, Miss Drew?" he replies as he stands over the body and starts putting on a pair of rubber gloves.

"Why is there a hole through his head?"

Priest pauses and glances over the corpse. "Ah yes, this poor sod here was executed and then immediately delivered to us."

"Executed?"

"He did something or another that have caused him to get the death penalty. In China, their choice in execution is a bullet through the head. Cheap, easy, and fast—kind of like a few fans I have met over the years. Come closer, Miss Drew, how are you going to help me standing so far away?"

Drew still stands a few meters from him. "How the hell are we going to restore _that?_ Half his face is gone!"

"We won't be restoring his face," he answers as he starts fiddling around with the embalming equipment. "We will be restoring his body and make him look a little more…fresher."

She blinks and replies, "Oh, I see," though clearly not understanding—at all. She cautiously walks over to him and sees a surgical mask lying amongst the equipment. She takes it and immediately puts it on. It does absolutely nothing for the smell, but it makes her feel better. What's left of the man's face is covered in gore, as is his clothing. Drew swallows thickly and turns an even odder shade of green.

"Here," Priest says as he hands her a pair of rubber gloves, "put these on."

"I'm allergic to–"

"Latex, yes, I know. These are latex-free gloves."

She takes the gloves from him and snaps them on. "How did you know I'm allergic?"

"Medical records. I had to make sure you had a strong mental history and no disorders or illnesses. Help me cut off his clothes." He hands her a pair of scissors.

She takes it from him. "Don't you need one of these?" She points to the mask on her face.

"For a living model, not for the already deceased," he smirks, "and not for this kind of procedure."

She glowers under her mask and starts snipping at his shirt, careful not to harm the flesh. Priest moves to the dead man's feet and removes the shoes and socks. He takes another set of scissors and starts cutting at the corpse's pants. When Priest has finished cutting up the man's pants and takes it off, she cringes at the sight of the genitals and quickly looks elsewhere. Her eyes accidentally lands on the huge, gaping hole in the corpse's head and she cringes from that as well. Having nowhere else to look that would cause her to see something unpleasant, she stares intently at his chest as she quickly finishes up with the shirt.

"Right," he sighs as she pulls the shirt from the body to throw it into a trash bin, "you can start washing the body, while I work on relieving the rigor mortis."

She picks up the showerhead.

"Oh," he adds, "make sure you clean his head thoroughly." He grins at her.

She narrows her eyes at him but doesn't say anything. She starts rinsing the body off while he bends, flexes, and massages the dead man's limbs, trying to work the stiffness from the body. She brings the showerhead to the corpse's skull. Bits of brain and skull well up from the cavernous void and slide off the man's disfigured face. She gags and looks up towards the ceiling for a few moments until she is sure nothing else will float out.

As she turns off the shower and starts on the disinfectants and germicides, she asks, "What is this piece about anyway?"

"Ironically, an execution."

She raises her eyebrows. Priest continues, "An associate of mine recommended I procure a body from a Chinese prison; they're inexpensive and already shot in the head—I wouldn't even have to buy a gun to do it myself. Although we do need to work on the body; make it look like a fresh kill."

"We're talking about a man here," she said with her voice low, a bit appalled by his lack of concern.

Priest stops what he's doing to regard her. He sneers, "Yes, a prisoner who's stupid enough to get caught and sentenced to death – or stupid enough to get framed. Whatever it is, he most likely got what he deserved."

She's affronted. "How can you–"

"I am a monster," he interrupts, face cold and completely free of emotion; all previous jest and arrogance gone. She gapes at him; he adds, "You know this _very_ well, and you have agreed to work with this monster. Now get to work, or get out."

She closes her mouth and seems effectively chastened. Looking away from Priest, she continues disinfecting the body. He studies her for a few seconds before he continues as well. They work in silence until she finishes cleaning the corpse and he's done reducing the stiffness. She finally breaks the silence, "Now what?"

"Now?" he reiterates with a disturbing chuckle. He suddenly flips the body off the table so it falls toward her. She shrieks at the top of her lungs as she backpedals, just managing to miss the body from collapsing on top of her. The corpse falls to the floor with a sick crack.

"Now we get to the _fun_ part!" he shouts, his face split into a grin, as he lands a swift kick at the dead man's torso.

She backs away from him until she hits the wall. She stares at him as he turns the body over and continues to strike the cadaver.

"What—what the hell are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he answers without looking up from his work. "I'm mutilating a corpse!"

She blinks rapidly for a few seconds before yelling, "Is there a method to your madness or are you just insane?"

He stops stepping on the dead man's limbs and turns to face her. He's breathing heavily from his exertions. Something predatory flashes in his eyes and he stalks over to her, ripping his gloves off his hands. Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes grow to the size of saucers. She presses herself even closer against the wall. He stands close, far too close to her body. "I am so glad you've asked that, Miss Drew."

She turns her head away. He leans in closer to say into her ear, "In fact, there is a reason why I'm defacing this corpse." He brings one of his hands up close to her face, about to smooth her hair back.

"You said you wouldn't touch me again!" She stutters her words.

He pauses, fingers inches away from her skin. He smiles mischievously. "I'm not touching you." He slowly brings his hand closer to her. He makes a motion of cupping her cheek, but never making contact. He's barely a centimeter away; he moves his hands up and down deliberately, like he would if he were to stroke her skin. She can feel the heat radiating against the side of her face.

"Sto–" her voice falters, but she quickly clears her throat and says firmly, "Stop."

Priest brings his hand to the side of her neck, still not touching her. "This piece isn't just about an execution, it's also about agony—suffering unto the very last breath," he softly mumbles, looking quite entertained at her situation. "The bruising won't show if we embalm him first and then inflict the wounds. Of course, these are post mortem bruising, and someone with a trained eye can easily tell. Lucky for us, not many people fit in that category."

She is trembling faintly; her stare is fixed on some random spot on the floor. He observes her for a few seconds before backing away. He turns and his previous cheerful tone is restored. "Now, help me lift the body onto the table. I think he's had enough." He chortles at his own joke.

Drew swallows nervously as she pushes herself away from the wall. _This guy is nuts, bipolar, schizophrenic; completely unstable. Oh geez…._ She warily follows him.

He pulls on a clean pair of rubber gloves and says, "I'll take his shoulders; you take his legs."

She places her hands under the corpse's knees—trying to not look at him directly—and Priest places his hands under the corpse's shoulders. "Count of three," he states, "one, two, three – lift." Grunting, they bring the body back onto the table.

He stands and places his hands at his waist. Sighing, he studies the corpse. Drew waits cautiously, twiddling her fingers and looking at Priest. "Alright," he announces a little too loudly, causing her to jump. "I'll work on the embalming, there's nothing much you can do to help with that since you don't know the process. Go finish up some paperwork; I shall call you when I need you."

She turns and makes her way towards the exit, trying her very best to not dash away. She takes off her gloves and surgical mask and tosses them into the trash bin near the door. She steps out and, the moment she is out of his sight, she breaks into a run. She sprints up the stairs, down the hallway, through Cellblock 14, and finally to her "office." It's actually just one of the cells with the bed removed and large desk in its place. Priest also gave her a remote control that could close and lock her cell door, though she's not too sure why. The only other person in this entire prison is Priest himself, and he has the master remote and master keys, if he wanted to snoop around her stuff (which is mostly _his_ stuff) he could do so easily. If he decides to go crazy and wants to attack her, he could waltz right into her cell with a click of a button or a twist of a key. Locking herself in would only succeed in trapping her, caged like a dog—_no, no, not going there. Not going to think about it. Don't think about it_.

She presses her lips together and slumps into her chair. She grabs the top file from a big stack of papers, flips it open, and begins filling it out. The adrenaline rush from her previous scare starts to fade after a few minutes. Crashing after the excitement, combined with weeks of poor sleep and boring paperwork, makes her eyelids grow heavy; then close of its own accord. Her head droops towards her chest.

She suddenly snaps awake to an absurdly intense brightness shining into her eyes. Blinded, she blinks a few times and lifts her arms to cover her eyes but realizes she can't move at all. There is a clinking noise every time she tries to change position. When she regains the ability to see, she discovers that she's no longer in her cell and that she's squinting up at a cluster of florescent lighting. She looks around and—_oh, God—_she realizes she's back in that gynecological chair…naked.

The chair is positioned mostly upright this time; her wrists are handcuffed to the armrests and her ankles are handcuffed to the stirrups. She tries to close her legs, but only manages to touch the sides of her knees together. She furiously yanks at her restraint, causing the metal of the shackles to bite into her skin. She begins to panic and hyperventilate, barely holding back her sobs and tears. A desperate high-pitched keening sound escapes from the back of her throat, sounding very much like a wounded animal.

Her actions abruptly halt and she freezes. She feels something move between her legs. She couldn't see past her thighs because they are touching at this weird angle with her ankles still spread apart, but something is definitely moving around down there. She's holding her breath, hoping it's just fear playing tricks on her mind. She's too scared to open her thighs and take a look. All of a sudden, she feels something wet and hot brush against a very intimate area. She squeaks loudly and flings her legs apart. She looks down to see Priest kneeling before her, also naked and a bit amused at her reaction. He snakes his tongue out and slowly, very slowly, licks her once. Her breath hitches and she makes a choked noise.

She tries to press her legs together again—not that that would do anything to help since her ankles are still very much chained to the stirrups. He shoots his hands out and presses them to her inner thighs, running his hands up and down the skin a few times. He pushes at her knees and forces her legs further apart, taking a moment to inspect her, a slight smirk playing on his lips. She blushes a deep red and, again, tries to bring her legs together. He firmly presses on her knees once and makes a tsk sound of disapproval. Running his hands back down to her inner thigh, he presses his lips against her core, watching her face intently. He passes his tongue up and down her folds, so agonizingly slow, making her flesh aflame. She clenches her jaw and arches, trying to press herself into him. He places his hands on her hips and forcefully pushes her back down on the chair. He slides his tongue up to her clit and then gently sucks; her toes curl and she grabs onto the arm rests, knuckles turning white. He teases her and she's close, so very close. Just as she was about to find her release, he stops and pulls away from her.

She groans in frustration and her head rolls against the back of the chair. He chuckles as he stands and leans into her, rubbing the tip his desire against her center. She hisses in longing.

"Do you want this?" he asks, voice deep and husky. He splays his fingers across her ribs.

She's gasping in anticipation and nods her head slightly.

He rubs himself against her again and she bites her bottom lip. "Do you want _me?_" He leers at her, raising a single eyebrow.

She nods again. "Yes…" she breathes.

He presses himself to her—almost entering her—as he leans in and whispers into her ear, "I think you need you wake up."

Confused, she swallows and says, "What?"

"_Wake up!_" he screams into her ear.

She starts and finds herself falling; then landing on her ass painfully. Panting, and darting her eyes frantically, she finds herself back in her cell, fully clothed. Priest is gazing down at her scornfully. She blinks up at him from the floor—_oh_. "Did you have a nice nap?" he asks in a biting tone.

"Um…"

"Good, I'm glad! Now get back to work before I lock you in a closet with the rotting corpse of a clown!"

She snaps to attention and gets on her feet.

"I need you to get some restorative wax and mortician's makeup. You can get them at this address—" He hands her a slip of paper. "—and do hurry up."

She takes the slip of paper and starts walking away dutifully, although she feels equal parts a rising headache and sexual frustration. She has been having those kinds of…nightmares…for weeks now, ever since that night…

She walks out of the prison gates, scrubs a hand over her face; then glances back to the towering structure. She doesn't want to think about the nightmares and what they might mean. She doesn't want to think about what might or might not be wrong with her. She doesn't want to think about him. She quickly walks away from the building and towards her car.

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**_Stay tuned for the chapter two!_**

Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the long wait! Thanks to the very lovely Raredeadly for the beta and a couple of suggestions!

**Warning:** Noncon smut

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For the two weeks since the little scare Priest put her through in the morgue, Drew hasn't seen much of him. She went out to buy the supplies he needed and when she came back, she was left to her paperwork. He worked on the corpse alone after that; the only time she saw him was when she would wish him a good evening before going home.

And now, after finishing his last display, "The Execution," he calls it—yes, not very original, he admits, but art isn't really about naming things, now is it?—it is ready to be unveiled to the public. On the day of the opening, Drew was supposed to be off for the day, but she does have an invitation to visit the opening later on in the evening—one of the perks of being the artist's personal assistance perhaps. Although a disadvantage of being the personal assistant of a nut-job artist would be him calling at all hours of the night to be his resident whipping girl, such as now.

She received a call from him about a half hour ago, at 3:47 AM, ordering her to help set up Priest's exhibit at a warehouse located downtown. Something or another has happened, and they are very behind schedule; they need another hand to help with the set-up if they are to open the exhibit on time tonight. She really wants to tell him to shove it where the sun don't shine.

But, now she is standing in front of the dark warehouse and has to go in to face the psychosis of her subconscious. The expansive building towers over her. She takes a deep breath through her nose and walks onward. When she nears the rolling overhead door, it automatically slides open for her; the metal grating on metal causes her to cringe.

She steps through the threshold into the gloom; most of the lights are burned out. _Can't believe they didn't change the lights yet, that should be the first thing on the agenda, how the hell will anything be set up if_ – the door slams down behind her, and she jumps, twisting around to gape at the obstructed exit.

_No. No, don't tell me I've walked into another trap. No, not again. Where the hell is everyone? God dammit ... _"Mr. Priest?" she asks uncertainly, turning to scan her eyes across the vicinity. No answer.

"Mr. Priest!" This time she speaks louder; firmer. _What the hell is he up to now?_

"Priest!" Her voice echoes ominously in the seemingly empty warehouse. She crosses her arms. "I am not moving from this spot until you show yourself!"

One of the light fixtures on the ceiling comes crashing down behind her. Light bulbs shatter, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. Drew shrieks and lunges away, but one of the shards grazes her ankle; a thin trickle of blood runs towards her shoe. Slightly slouched over with her hand on her chest and panting, she stares wide-eyed at the broken equipment. "The hell…?"

Then, another light fixture drops right above her. She yelps, "Fuck!" and dashes away. Then another falls, and another, and another. "_What the fuck?_" she yells as she sprints away, drawing out the word _fuck_.

She trips and lands hard, her ribs make contact with the floor. She lays for a moment, moaning in misery, before she hears screeching above her—something breaking, or being released—and shifts to see a huge fixture tumbling towards her. She screams at the top of her lungs and rolls away, covering her face as the large contraption comes crashing down where she was lying only moments ago. Glass showers her. A small piece falls between her fingers, cutting her cheek.

She slowly rises, quivering faintly, and stares at the mess with her mouth hanging opened. She clenches her jaw and shouts between her teeth, "Priest! You sick motherfucker! Why are you doing this?" No answer. "_Priest!_"

She feels a shooting pain in her ribs every time she gasps for breath. She's pretty sure she cracked a rib; the blood from the cut on her cheek oozes down her neck.

Drew limps towards the door in a huff and another light fixture plummets before her. Squealing, she backpedals and slips, collapsing on her ass. The impact to her ribs sends jolts of pain through her torso. She quickly stumbles back onto her feet. "What do you want, you sick fuck? I'm done with you! I quit, you hear me? _I fuckin quit!_"

She steps towards the exit again, her shoes crunching on the broken glass. After a few more lights plunge before her, she glances upwards and shouts, "You've run out of things to drop on me, you _freak!_ What the hell are you going to do now, huh?"

She stalks towards the exit and leans over, reaching down to lift the rolling steel door. Electricity shocks her arm and she yelps, snatching her hand away. A wisp of smoke rises from the door. "_Fuck,_" she hisses; her entire right arm is numb and shaking uncontrollably. "Let me out, you asshole! You can't do this to me! Let me out! _Let me out!_"

She turns when she hears a clacking echoing behind her. A new light, much brighter than the rest, has been turned on in the back of the room. Now that her eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness, she can see a black piece of plastic about nine feet high is stretched across the room, dividing it so that she can see the lights dangling from the ceiling, but not what's actually on the floor space. She has absolutely no idea what is beyond the plastic sheet and doesn't want to know.

She grimaces and shouts, "Forget it; I'm not playing any of your sick games!"

That single brighter light flickers on and off rhythmically.

"Damn it, Priest! Let me go!" She childishly stomps her foot once.

The light flickers faster.

"_I'm not doing this!_"

All the lights in the facility click off, leaving her in pitch darkness. She swallows thickly and takes a deep breath, trying to squash the growing panic. She pissed him off. She wonders if this means that he gave up and if she turns around and tries for the door again, it wouldn't shock her. Her right arm, still numb and trembling, deters her from trying again.

She grinds her teeth together and shouts, "Fine!" The lights flash back on; the brighter one flickers a few times, as if telling her, "Well, come on, then."

She walks towards the plastic sheet, glass crunching underfoot. She hesitates in front of the barrier—_just do it, quick like a Band-Aid, finish and get out of here_—she bends down and grips the end of the sheet and lifts. She steps through and allows the plastic to fall behind her. She stops dead in her tracks and gapes.

It's like a scene right out of horror movie. The floor space is sectioned off with divider curtains, like in a hospital ward, so she is forced to follow a certain path. The curtains would have been white if not stained and dirty. She's not sure what the origins of the stains are, but taking a guess, it could be paint, blood, or … fecal matter. Knowing Priest, he wouldn't shy away from using such mediums for his … art. She frowns and continues onward.

Passing the first curtain, she turns and almost jumps out of her skin. Snapping her hand over her mouth, she chokes and swallows back a scream.

A corpse—a naked man—lies on its stomach atop a wooden crate, hands and feet are hogtied together. The man's eyes have been roughly gouged out, leaving two big black holes with dried gore and blood streaking down his face. A spider gag forces his mouth wide open, with hooks on the side digging deeply into his face—dried blood streaks from that as well. She whimpers and quickly moves on.

The curtains are arranged in a maze, so she goes through a few twists before reaching the next display. She recoils and wraps her arms around herself, stifling the urge to cry.

This next body is propped up on velvet covered bricks: a nude woman in intricately tied bondage. But instead of rope, she's bound by barbed wire. The wire wraps around her neck and down to crisscross at her chest, intersecting once more at her spine to reach back towards the front. The wire then pulls down between her legs and up to tie her arms behind her back, wrists to elbows. The wire continues upward to reach up and over her shoulders to tie her knees together as close to her chest as possible; then it goes downward to tie her ankles together. The barbed wire severely bites down into her skin, and her entire body is covered in rivulets of dried blood. The dead woman's face is distorted in such a way that it is impossible tell if she is in rapture or anguish. Drew snaps her mouth closed and hastens her steps away from the mutilation.

A few more turns takes her to another display. She gags and swallows the bile threatening to purge from her stomach, pressing a hand against her mouth. This display is of another naked woman. Her arms are tied behind her back by the elbows; the rope winds all the way down her forearms to her wrists. The restraint is so unyielding that the elbows touch, causing her chest to be thrust forward. Each ankle is also tied to its corresponding thigh, forcing her to a kneeling position.

But the thing that appalls Drew is that the woman is planted on a thick white pole by a lower orifice; it is the only thing holding her up … one and a half feet in the air. Because of the way her ankles are tied, she would have been unable to straighten her legs and keep herself from being impaled. Coagulated blood seeps down starkly against the white pole to pool on the floor.

Drew spins away and keeps walking, fearing whatever she'll be forced to see next.

A few more turns bring her to the most abysmal display she has or ever will see in her entire life. She lets out a piercing gasp and her jaws drop in horror.

There are two unclothed figures in this display, one is a woman; the other could be called a man if not for the condition he's in. The man is on his back on a twin mattress. The skin and muscles of his torso have been sliced and are held apart by metal forceps. His ribs have been sawed down the center and cracked apart to reveal all internal organs. Blood soaked the mattress completely, some seeps over the edge. The woman is straddling his hips; they are joined. Her hands are stuffed into his intestines. Blood covers her arms from fingertips to elbow. Her face is contorted to show glee and pleasure, lips rolled back in a delighted grin. The man's mouth is wide open in a silent scream. His eyes are partially rolled to the back of his head, almost like he were looking directly at Drew.

She falls to her knees, vomits, and continues to heave even after there's nothing left in her stomach. Panting, she springs onto her feet and starts running. The earsplitting scream she has been holding back finally rushes from her lungs, and she's bawling wordlessly from panic, fear, and _oh, God, what the fuck is he? _She runs and runs, not looking at the rest of the displays that cross her way, running mindlessly—stupidly—until, she rounds a corner and an arm darts out.

She runs right into it, whacking her face against the bicep. Her head snaps back as her legs continue forward, causing her to fall onto her back with a sharp crack. Her head hits hard against the floor and the room starts spinning. Her ribs pulses in pain to the rhythm of her speeding heart.

"My, my." Priest's voice echoes from somewhere she can't see. "How clumsy."

His face looms over her, half-concealed in the darkness of the warehouse. "Did you hurt yourself?" He doesn't even bother hiding his mirth.

She groans, blinking hard and trying to will the room to stop moving. She spat, "Fuck you …"

He grins, "We'll get to that later—" her heart skips a beat and dread fills her belly, "—but for now, allow me to help you up. Poor girl, that nasty fall must have given you a concussion." He bends to one knee and slips his hands underneath her.

"Don't touch me." Her tongue feels about three sizes too large and her words are slurred.

"Now, now …" His attempt at comforting her is pretty lackluster. "I'm trying to help you." He places an arm under her knee and the other under her shoulders. He lifts her up and begins walking.

"_You_ did this to me," she snaps, "you _psychopath!_"

He laughs, "Oh, yes, do keep calling me names. Did you see my exhibits? I know you must have, or you wouldn't have been screaming your head off; running madly without direction. Yes … tell me what a _ghastly_ person I am—a man with a putrid soul—it makes me feel …" he hisses between his teeth, "so _good_."

She can tell that they are nearing the bright light she had been following. She swallows nervously. "Where are you taking me?"

"Right here." He gently places her down on something soft, under a brilliant light shining into her eyes.

She can't see much of her surroundings because of the light but she can tell that she's laying on some kind of hospital bed. She can feel herself panicking once more. She whimpers, "I want to go home…"

"I know you do," he replies, his voice soft but condescending, "but, you have to stay, just for a little while." He brings his hand up to smooth the messy hair out of her face. She shies away from him, and he pushes against her to keep her still—pressing on her broken ribs. She cries out, and he pulls away from her. "It seems you have hurt yourself more than I anticipated," he mutters to himself. "No matter; I think it will be better this way."

"What way?" She's beginning to grow frantic. "What are you going to do? _Why_ are you doing this? _Why won't you let me go?_"

He ignores her and proceeds to straddle her hips. Her breathing hitches, her voice becoming high-pitched, "You-you said you wouldn't touch me again!"

He tilts his head to the side curiously and says, "Did I?"

Drew nods her head franticly, despite it making her concussion feel worse.

He smiles. "I lied."

He grips the collar of her shirt and rips the fabric down the middle. She squeaks and attempts to push him off of her. He shoves her floundering limbs away and presses a hand against her broken ribs. As he presses down harder, she cries out; then grabs his wrist in an attempt to keep him from fracturing the bones further. His grasp is relentless and he presses down even more; she screams louder.

"Are you going to remain still?" He has to raise his voice, but her wailing still drowns him out. "Hey!" He captures her chin with his free hand, forcing her to look at him. "Are you going to remain still?" he repeats, digging his fingers into her flesh.

She gnashes her teeth and nods slightly, silent tears rolling down her cheeks from the pain.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Yes," she says in a horse whisper.

"Good," he says as he releases his hold on her to straighten up; she sighs in relief.

Priest starts unbuttoning his shirt and she freezes; her mind going into overdrive. _What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I can't fight. I can't win. I don't know where to go. There's nowhere to go. I'm hurt, and he's stronger. This entire place is rigged to his advantage. I won't win. What am I going to do?_

"Someone…" she whimpers.

He stops undoing his shirt halfway down his stomach. "Did you say something?"

"Someone…" she whines a bit louder, "someone…"

Still unable to hear her clearly, he leans in closer.

"_Someone help me!_" she screams at the top of her lungs.

He throws his head back and laughs raucously, "Do you really think anyone can hear you? Here? In the middle of the abandoned manufacturing district? With 12 inch concrete walls surrounding us? Do you think anyone would actually be wandering around here at this time to even hear you scream? Do you really think that they would help, that they would bother?" His lips twist scornfully.

He bends to lick the blood from the scratches on Drew's neck and cheek. She makes a small sound of rejection and twists herself away. He catches her by her upper arms and tugs her back to the center of the bed. Keeping one hand against her injured ribs firmly enough that it will hurt only if she starts moving, he finishes unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and drops it to the floor. He slides his hand underneath her to lift her slightly and takes the torn shirt off of her. He takes the opportunity to unhook her bra and tosses that aside as well. He glides his fingertips over her collarbone, down between her breasts, to her abdomen, and rests against her jean's waistband. She shivers; the freezing room an intense contrast against his burning fingers.

He leans over her and brushes his lips against the pulse at her neck. Her eyes flutter and she breathes a small sigh. She says, her voice low, "I hate you."

He pulls away to regard her; he looks at her coldly for a moment before breaking into a smile. "Oh, I have no doubt you hate me; I tend to evoke that kind of emotion." He unbuttons her jeans and tugs.

She narrows her eyes. "You won't get away this time."

"Oh? And what are you going to do?" He pulls her jeans and underwear swiftly off her legs and lets them fall. "Will you report me to the police? Go right on ahead. I can afford exceptional lawyers by the dozens." He bows his head towards her face and sneers, "All I will get is a slap on the wrist."

He gives her a quick peck on the lips, pauses; then kisses her soundly. When she keeps her mouth clamped shut, he runs his tongue along her teeth; then squeezes her cheeks until her jaw unhinges. He smashes his lips against her harder and their teeth click. His tongue probes deep into her mouth. She twists away from him, breaking the kiss, and bends as far away from his head as she can. Her flailing arms catch his throat, making him grunt. He shoves her arms away and slaps her across the face, snapping her back to the center of the bed. She yelps and places a hand over her cheek, staring at him in shock. Her eyes begin to water from the sting of his strike.

He grips her chin and callously presses her head against the mattress. He growls between clenched teeth, "Are you going to be nice?"

She spits onto his face and screams, "_Fuck you!_"

He bares his teeth in a silent snarl and slaps her again, this time harder. He pulls her hair and wipes the spittle off his cheek with it; then he flings the tresses over her face. She shakes her head, trying to toss the hair out of her eyes as he says, "We will get to that _later_." Each word is clipped and patronizing. "Right now …" He unbuttons his trousers and kicks them off together with his boxers. She starts squirming away from him, but he quickly pulls her lower on the bed. He scuttles his way on his knees to her chest, hovering over her; still astride. "I think you need to be _disciplined._" He gives her a leer. "Open your mouth."

Her eyes widen and she presses her lips shut. He's almost sitting on her upper arms, so she can't shove him off. She can grab hold of his thigh in an attempt to pull him away from her face, but she cannot move him even an inch.

He tsks and pinches her nose shut. She gives a strangled cry from the back of her throat as she tries to keep her lips locked. She thrashes her head from side to side, trying to knock him off, but to no avail. Finally, she can struggle no more; she gasps sharply.

He shoves his fingers in her mouth and forces her jaw down. She squeals as he leans into her face and growls, "If you so much as nick me, I will pull every single tooth out of your pretty little mouth and we will start over. Do I make myself clear?"

Tears freely roll down her temples. Her face hurts from where he hit her, she feels like he is trying to rip her jowls off its joints, her head is pounding ceaselessly at the back of her skull, and every breath she take shoots acute pain up and down her torso. She closes her eyes and nods faintly. Maybe the sooner she gives him what he wants, the sooner she can get out of there. When he releases his hold on the bottom half of her face, she grinds her teeth from side to side, trying to loosen the sore muscle.

He inches closer. She flinches as he nudges the tip of his cock to her lips. He looks down his nose at her coldly and opens his mouth, gesturing her to do the same with an arch of his brows. She looks at him with a beaten expression and slowly parts her lips. He slips his member in and begins plowing into her mouth furiously.

She chokes and her eyes water as she struggles to breathe through his harsh treatment. Her fingers twitch on his thighs and she makes a garroted noise.

As Priest hits the back of her throat with each agonizing thrust, she tries very hard not throw up. She attempts to twist away from him so she can catch her breath, but he grips a fistful of her hair and keeps her in place. She is whining and sobbing and _God, hurry up already, I can't take much more_.

He is nearing his end as his thrusts become more and more jerky. Finally, he shoves his cock deep into her mouth and comes in long spurts. She retches; thick fluid leaks out of the corners of her lips.

He pulls out of her with a wet pop. She coughs violently and gags, spewing his seed all over her chin towards her neck. She turns her head and spits the contents out of her mouth, unfortunately, getting most of it into her hair. She coughs again as her heavy breathing begins to even out.

"What a mess," he says as he fully stretches himself on top of her. She turns to glare at him with as much hate as she could possibly muster.

He tilts his head to the side and peers at her inquiringly. "Have you ever seen a snuff film?" he asks.

Drew blinks. "What?" Her voice is horse.

"A snuff film. A film that depicts a death or a murder—without special effects, of course. Everything is real ... especially the death. It's a very … _extreme_ form of entertainment. All that are available to the public are fakes; usually an actress is tied to a filthy mattress of some sort. She would be violated and ultimately dismembered in front of a camera. Although a very few snuff films that circulate the more … _distinguished_ circles prove to be authentic."

Priest is leaning on his arms over her, his hands planted on the bed on either side of her head. Drew shifts a little uncomfortably; she can feel him getting hard again. "Why are you telling me this?" she whispers. _How can his shift in moods be so drastic and sudden?_ One minute he's torturing her, taking pleasure in her fear and suffering, and now he's lecturing her like a professor would a class?

His lips curl in a chilling smile. "Well, my dear …" One of his hands disappears off to the side of the bed and she hears the sound of a button being clicked. Blinding lights all around them suddenly spark to life. She blinks rapidly and squints. Turning away to avoid the glaring onslaught, she freezes. The lights illuminate her surroundings and she realizes that she's encircled by a group of people. They are all smartly dressed—their formal wardrobe certainly does not look cheap—and none are under the age of 30. Her mouth hangs open as she watches them watch her and Priest. They study her with a sort of detached interest, like someone would look at a piece of … artwork?

She breathes in complete shock, "Wha…"

"You are about to become the newest addition to my exhibit, Miss Drew." He grabs her by the chin and forces her to look at him. "Does that not make you happy?" He tenderly strokes her jawline, ignoring the fact that her skin is covered in his own slick.

"I … what?"

"You don't remember the name of my latest display? Pity." He brought his hands down to lightly brush the hair from her neck. "Smile for the camera, darling, you're my star now." He gestures towards this camera sitting on a tripod, pointing at them. "Through your death, you will be immortalized. This performance will be the talk of the art world for years. The audacity of making the most vulgar, profane entertainment into _art._" He says the word with a reverence most people reserved for religious invocations.

His hands clamp down on her neck.

She chokes and her eyes grow huge. Gagging, she claws at his hands.

He squeezes harder and then penetrates her ruthlessly, his face turning savage. She clenches her teeth and digs her nails into his forearm; then she reaches one arm to push and scratch at his chest. She's tearing his skin into red, bloody welts, but it does nothing to stop him; in fact, he seems to be enjoying it. He bares his teeth like a feral animal and drives his member painfully into her, gripping her neck tighter and tighter.

Her legs flail uselessly against the bed. She presses her head to the mattress, tilting her chin up, mouth gaping open, desperate to draw even a single breath. The room spins, but she can still see the blurred images of the audience standing, watching, morbid fascination writ across their faces.

The edge of her vision darkens as she scrapes weakly against Priest's wrists; then her eyes begin to roll to the back of her head. One hand reaches out to brush against his face before it falls limply to her side. She feels him spill inside her as the last pinprick of light vanishes from her sight.

Drew falls into darkness.

Air fills her lungs, and she gasps loudly. Her eyes snap open and she jolts up into a sitting position. Each breath rattles her lungs and feels like fire coursing into her chest.

She moans and presses a palm against her throat as she takes in her surroundings. She's in her apartment, alone, fully dressed in pajamas; bed sheets tangled across her legs. It's still pitch dark outside. The faint glow of the digital clock on her nightstand tells her it is 4:32 AM. She takes a deep breath and flops back onto the bed. Another fucking nightmare.

In the past few weeks, her dreams have gone from just crazy-kinky to full-fledged bloodcurdling nightmares. Every single one of them involves Priest as the instigator—ah, her own personal Freddy Kruger.

Drew has been sleep deprived and living off of caffeine for days. She falls asleep easily enough, as she's exhausted beyond all imagining. It is staying asleep that is the problem. Tossing and turning all through the night, waking every hour with her heart about to burst from her chest—any more of this and she'll be likely to pass out while driving and crash into her death.

_No, fuck, don't think about death_. She throws an arm over her eyes and sighs. There won't be any more sleeping tonight.

* * *

Author's Notes:

A spider gag is a BDSM gag with a hollow ring that fits into the mouth, forcing it open and allowing access to the mouth (oral sex may be performed using this gag if the ring is large enough). The ring has prongs on the side to keep the wearer from flipping the ring horizontally in their mouth. It's not very comfortable, but it's also not supposed to dig into the skin or cause any real harm. Mr. Priest customized his in a way that the wearer would be mutilated.

Please review! I may write a sequel depending on how many people wants one and if inspiration ever hits lol.

_**Complete**_


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